I took the only seat left, beside a dude
with an afro ten inches tall, who bongo drummed
his knees, accompanying an invisible quartet

he claimed he wanted
to create, not re-late, so he slapped paint
on canvas, and blew on his horn

his woman wanted more, more
bread, more bed, more time to rap, more,
more, plural mores he said

but he wanted singular less
and told her it would be best
if she split--and she did

though on her way out the door of his crib
she kicked a wet canvas, leaving a stiletto print
on James Baldwin's nose

"cool cat must have had his nose broke
by some ***** before, " so he left her smudge
alone, and then he was alone

when he got off the bus
and told me to be cool, he handed me a smoke
I bummed a light from another hip cat

but he didn't have a story to tell
so I smoked my Winston solo, listening to the bus's hum
and distant muffled horns

Oakland, June 1969